


in a room without a door

by scenedenial



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Armie POV, Cooking, Domesticity, M/M, Napping, New York summer, No Plot, Slice of Life, ass eating, butt plug, lazy normal person sex, they just fuck and sleep basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 22:43:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17631116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scenedenial/pseuds/scenedenial
Summary: The sash on the window is up—sticky, so Armie had to get a shoulder under it to force it to move—and the cloying air that’s circulating is doing nothing to dry the sweat on Timothée’s thighs that Armie’s hand slicks over. A doppler-ed wail of a taxi horn rises, with the heat, from the pavement below. The shouts and bustle of the midday city crowds mingle with Timothée’s pants, his soft, plaintive murmurs.





	in a room without a door

**Author's Note:**

> This is very short and was written very quickly, but I wanted to come back to these two! I hope you guys enjoy <3
> 
> Also, as always, this is a work of FICTION. I love and respect both of these guys and this doesn’t actually reflect what I think their relationship is like.

Timothée’s knees slip down in the sheets and he loses his balance, crashing onto his elbows and face as Armie tuts and grabs rough at his hips. Keeping him lined up, keeping him ready; he pulls out, just about, then shoves back in. Timothée yelps and quivers and clutches the sweat-yellowed sheets in white-knuckled fists. 

The sash on the window is up—sticky, so Armie had to get a shoulder under it to force it to move—and the cloying air that’s circulating is doing nothing to dry the sweat on Timothée’s thighs that Armie’s hand slicks over. A doppler-ed wail of a taxi horn rises, with the heat, from the pavement below. The shouts and bustle of the midday city crowds mingle with Timothée’s pants, his soft, plaintive murmurs. 

“Take it.” Armie pants, grip unsteady on wet skin, angle not quite right, thrusts frustratingly shallow, and it’s not like he can get them as _fast_ as he wants to, either. 

“Uh- _huh_.” Timothée groans, all the emphasis on the second syllable, like, _fuck, fine, I thought that’s what I was doing_. 

Armie pulls out completely, doesn’t give Timothée the time to whine before he hooks an arm under that concave stomach and flips him 180 degrees into the filthy mattress. 

“Wh—“ He grunts, eyes popping and thought choked off when Armie yanks his hips up and pushes back in fast, more drive than nuance. Armie watches Timothée’s neck go limp and loose, crashing back into the messy toss of pillows; watches the color rise up high and fervent in his cheeks. The angle is better, for sure, lets him fuck down hard and deep into Tim without much work. He can get a better grip on that skinny-girl waist, pull Timothée down as he thrusts up to meet him. Timmy’s eyes roll. A bead of sweat disappears into his hairline. 

“Real nice, buddy!” Someone hollers down on the street below the window, and Armie grins and pats Timmy’s ribs as he arches up with an ass-full of cock. _Real nice, buddy._

Timothée comes moments later, and it’s kind of underwhelming; a thin white stream tracing its way down from his belly button to his collarbone as Armie hikes his thighs up higher. But the smell of spunk thickens in the already-heady air of the room, and Timmy kind of sighs without really opening his mouth, and it works for Armie. He pushes Timothée’s thighs up, nearly bending him in half, and rails him for a half-minute more before he’s done. Not that it’s not slightly underwhelming too—Armie chalks it up to the heat and exhaustion and the fact that they’ve both gotten off upwards of four times in the last twenty-four hours, and Armie, for one, is starting to feel it. 

Timothée smiles with mostly-closed eyes and makes a halfhearted attempt to shove Armie off of him. Armie concedes, rolling off to the side. His dick is sore and soaked; Timmy has a couple loads of cum leaking down his perineum, and it’s more an impulse than anything with which Armie roots around in the desk drawer.

“Fuck, _seriously_?” Timothée claps a hand to his forehead when Armie comes up with the plug that looks small in his hand but huge between Tim’s asscheeks. 

“If you want.” He’s not surprised in the slightest when Timothée rolls back over to his stomach, knees bent and ass crooked up. It makes him smile as he eases the thing—sleek metal, bulbous, flared bottom (safety!)—in, trying not to disturb the delicate balance of jizz more than he already has. Timmy moans into the pillows a little, as if he’s not old-hat enough by now to sit with something stuffing up his hole for hours at a time. Armie plants a kiss on the sweaty dimple above the delicate curve of his ass, then slaps that same spot as gently as he can. Timmy rolls over and looks at him. Just looks.

“What?” Armie asks, feeling vulnerable under his gaze. _How’d you get to be such a force, Chalamet?_

“I like this.”

“Okay, Elio.” Armie teases, because he likes it too. Likes the lazy drag of the day and the sweat that mingles and intermixes grossly between their pores, likes the uninspired sex with too much body heat and not enough kissing, likes the almost-bored way Timothée fingered himself open earlier, not as a means to an end, not for anything but _might-as-well_.

“I _do_.” Timothée counters, half-indignant. 

“Same.” Armie murmurs, pressing a hand over Timmy’s stomach, because he likes to reassure him even if he doesn’t really need reassuring. 

They must fall asleep at some point in the afternoon drawl of sun and sour-city-street smells, because Armie wakes up to dissipated light on the walls and Timothée’s arm thrown over his chest. He lays there still for as long as he can before his bladder pulls him away to Timmy’s tiny bathroom. There’s a photo on the wall that he glances at while he pisses—Timothée’s sister with a dog they had growing up, out in the French countryside. And though Armie knows nothing about home decor, this seems like a proper weird place for that to be. 

There’s fuck-all in the fridge that’s edible. This fucking millennial, surviving off Postmates and fussy take-out salads. Armie finds a hunk of sharp cheddar cheese and a packet of stale-ish English muffins, and MacGyvers a couple of sort-of grilled cheeses out of them, though it’s really too warm to turn on the range. He throws them on a plate that Timothée probably bought at IKEA, grabs two beers from the fridge (at least Timmy had the foresight to stock those), and ambles back to the bedroom with his fallout. 

Timothée resists the wake up call, rolling over into the sheets and scrubbing at his face with the heels of his palms before finally sitting up and squinting through the still-open window. 

“Aw,” he says when Armie gestures to the sandwiches, “you made me dinner.”

“I made myself dinner. You’re lucky I spared you a thought.” Timmy swats at Armie’s shoulder, but digs into the muffin creation like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. It’s gratifying, to say the least. Armie nurses his beer and watches the sky change colors, running a hand over Timmy’s foot in an absentminded half-massage. 

Timothée eats and falls back into a doze, still naked and flushed in the sheets with the butt plug just visible if Armie looks at him the right way. He reads, the book that’s open on Timothée’s side table, skimming the words with only some of his attention until the light outside gets too low to make out the letters easily. 

He wakes Timothée up for a second time, mostly out of boredom, by prodding lightly at the plug until he’s squirming. 

They fuck again, and it’s even less put-together than it was the last time. Armie rides Timothée, the pace slow and irregular but enough, Timothée’s bony hands toying at his chest, his hips. Armie sighs and gets his hand into Timmy’s hair, just to have it there. 

Timmy clucks his tongue and grins up at Armie and finally starts jerking his hips up until Armie comes with a few rough tugs to his cock. He gets off when Armie works the plug out of him and uses his mouth to clean up the cum that leaks out of his reddened ass. They roll onto the plate and manage not to break it, but the leftover crumbs end up everywhere in the sheets and they end up shoved into the laundry room that’s more like a closet, breathing down each other’s necks as the washing machine hums.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!!


End file.
